


something rich and strange

by gwendolynflight



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Consentacles, Discussing Consent, F/M, M/M, Multi, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, informed consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-13 20:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14755622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolynflight/pseuds/gwendolynflight
Summary: Quentin tries to kill himself, and in the process finds a whole new life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_.

Quentin Coldwater drove his rented Fiat into a hedge. 

Quentin hadn't been going very fast on the tiny English road. A sudden turn, easily missed, and the car’s windshield filled with greenery. He bounced against the seatbelt, banged his knee on the wheel column. The sudden stillness was startling, but also a relief. 

The Fiat didn't have much of a hood. What it has was buried halfway in the hedge, which was much taller than the car, than Quentin, and than Quentin standing on the roof of the car. Unable to see where he'd ended up, he climbed down on his sore knee and tried the GPS again.

It still showed him on the motorway, which was frustrating. Quentin breathed through it, set the unit down rather than throwing it. He could afford to be patient. He was on his way to die.

He only had a rucksack with him. He'd left most of his luggage in his hotel room with a note detailing his US address and Julia's contact information that the cleaning staff would find the next morning. 

Pulling out a paper map, Quentin unfolded it and spread it out on the gravel road, crouching over it. He thought he might be a mile from the Bolton Strid, maybe less if he cut across the fields. 

He looked at the car, down at the map. He stood. He'd done everything he'd wanted to: toured Christopher Plover’s home, seen the clock, the phone booth the children had gone through in London, Stonehenge (from a distance - it was the summer solstice, and the whole thing had been filled with dirty hippies, which had somewhat alarmed Quentin, who hadn't realized dirty hippies were still a thing). It was everything he'd ever wanted, and it was enough. It was time.

He left the car. Someone would find it, or they wouldn't. It didn't matter to him anymore. Shrugging the rucksack over his shoulders, he set out down the gravel road, hoping to find a break in the hedge.

It was a sunny day, which he was grateful for. When he'd told Jules and James that he was taking a break to see England, they'd mostly joked about rain. Well, James had joked about rain; Jules had warned him about remaining obsessed with that Fillory stuff once they were in grad school. 

He'd promised that this was more of a goodbye. He hadn't been lying about that part, at least.

In any case, he was glad for the sun beaming down, and for the knowledge that it would stay light until 10pm or later. He had plenty of time. 

He wore a light jacket with his jeans and hiking boots, but it was warm enough that he tied its arms around his waist. Just a few hundred feet up the gravel road, there was a metal gate set seemingly in the midst of the hedge, and he climbed it easily. 

The field beyond was a bit muddy. On the other side, the land seemed to open up, and he was suddenly looking out on a valley spread below him. It seemed to go on forever, and the trees were bright green in the sunlight, the fields golden beneath the perfect blue sky. He hadn't expected something so beautiful, and his heart lifted for just a moment.

He thought about taking a picture.

Then he thought about who he had left to show it to, and didn't. 

The rest of the walk was downhill. He crossed a few fields, found a path through a bit of woods, passed a paddock with a bull inside. He didn't come across any people, and he was glad.

Around 3pm he stopped for a small snack. In a way, he was surprised to still be hungry, but part of him knew that life would go on until it didn't. He nibbled on a granola bar, drank some water. Then he tucked the empty wrapper into a pocket of his rucksack and kept going.

Toward the bottom of the valley the trail moved through trees that weren't dense and wild like the forests he was more familiar with. These trees were old and thick and set far apart, and the undergrowth was low to the ground, glossy greens and little bright flowers that caught the shafts of light streaming through the leaves. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

Quentin wished his dad could've seen it.

When he got to the Strid itself it was kind of a surprise. There was a break in the trees, a bit of brightness ahead, and he stepped out into the light and there it was - a narrow, innocent looking stream.

The Bolton Strid, according to Wikipedia, was one of the deadliest natural features in the world, a river that basically turned itself sideways, as deep here as it was wide upstream, with a current so violent that no one who had fallen in had survived. 

And that was the plan.

It was so small for such a dangerous thing. The water trickled daintily in the narrow stream; he'd imagined rushing sounds, rapids and obvious danger, somehow. But it was just a stream. 

Well, a stream with warning signs. 

There was a small placard, neatly lettered, which warned of the stream’s deadly nature. Quentin again had the impulse to take a picture, but didn't. 

There really wasn't any point in documenting this part. 

He set his rucksack against a tree, in a bed of tiny white flowers. They smelled sweet. For a second Quentin wondered if he should take his clothes off, like when swimming. He tilted his head, shook it, like a dog shaking off water. 

Everything was prepared. There was only the act itself. 

He took a breath. Another. The sun was bright, and warm on the top of his head. The air smelled clean, and of water and warm green things. 

This was the place to do it. He'd made the right choice. 

He thought for just a second of his father, who had only ever wanted him to be happy, who hadn't ever understood that Quentin didn't know how to be. He'd tried for twenty two years. He couldn't try any longer. “Sorry, Dad,” he whispered. 

He wondered if his dad could hear him. Wondered if they'd be reunited. Wondered if this would finally be the end. 

He hoped it would be. 

He stepped over to the edge of the stream, looked into its innocent looking depths.

Stepped in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is rather surprised to find that something else happens in this story.

Quentin slipped through a layer of cool water, and then the current had him. 

He was ripped through the water, and it was suddenly cold, so cold his lungs froze, spasmed. It was dark, and the current spun him, he didn't know which way was up. He flailed a limb, knocked against something hard, spun around. His chest ached, spasmed. 

He pulled in a breath. 

The water burned. Burned in his lungs and he struggled against it, it hurt, he hadn't really thought it would hurt and his lungs were still working, uselessly, and even in the dark he felt it getting darker and thought, this is it. 

And dozens of feet underwater he realized he'd made a mistake. 

His lungs jerked. His back arched and he flailed both arms. There was no swimming, the current had him. He struggled against it, but it started to feel far away. He started to feel far away. 

He could feel himself dying. Something firm and powerful wrapped around his ankle. He was too far gone to think much of it. He had a moment more to wish he'd talked to Jules one last time, then there was nothing.

* * *

Quentin was very surprised to wake up. 

He was surprised to wake up at all, but even more surprised that he awoke warm, and mostly comfortable. 

His throat was raw. His body was sore, bruises throbbing on his legs, his arms, his back. He was laying on a hard surface, but on soft blankets, and another blanket was tucked over him. Not really blankets. Yards of soft, woven fabric with ragged edges. He coughed, weakly. Forced his eyes open. Wondered if maybe he was dead after all.

He was in a cave.

That wasn't the strangest thing. His mind was willing to accept he'd somehow been swept into an underwater cavern of some kind. But it was … decorated. There were lights, white sparkly Christmas lights, and cushions, and swathes of the same soft fabric he was laying on. He blinked at it, licked his lips. Coughed again. 

“You're awake!”

The voice that suddenly broke the silence made him flinch, but it wasn't the voice itself. There was nothing scary about it, and when he turned his head he saw it belonged to a beautiful young woman, with golden brown skin and long dark hair. She wore gauzy lengths of the same fabric, bound about her body like a toga. She was smiling, and Quentin found himself smiling back, awkwardly. 

“Hi, uh, where am I?” he stammered. His voice was rough.

“We call it Brakebills.”

This was a man's voice, and came from behind him. Quentin jerked around, and saw a tall, handsome white man enter the cave from behind a swath of fabric. The man was wearing robes, like the woman, and he walked over to where Quentin was laying in a nest of blankets. Quentin stared up at him. His eyes were a striking, dark color, and Quentin felt a shiver move through him.

“Are you cold?” the man asked, kneeling next to the blankets.

Quentin levered himself up onto his elbows, feeling a bit vulnerable. “No, um, I. Where…”

“It's a cave,” the woman said, also coming closer. Her voice was deep and husky, and commanded attention. “We can call it whatever we want, El, but it's a cave.”

“Underground?” Quentin asked anxiously. “We're underground?”

They exchanged a glance across his body, and he twisted his neck back and forth, trying to see them both. 

“We're under water, technically,” the man said. “Do you remember what happened?”

Quentin frowned, touched a sore spot on his head. “I, uh, fell. Uh, in the Bolton Strid, and …”

“So it was an accident?” the woman asked, raising one eyebrow. 

“Yeah, uh, that. An accident,” he claimed, unable to look at them, or meet their eyes. “I guess you saved me? Thank you, both.”

“Well, we brought you here,” the woman said, tilting her head. “I suppose you can decide if we qualify as saviors.”

At her words, Quentin shivered, looking between them fearfully. What had he fallen into? 

“You are cold, here,” the man said, handing him another blanket. It was chilly in the cave, if Quentin were being truthful, and he snuggled into the extra blanket gratefully. “I'm Eliot,” the man said, “and that's Margo.”

Margo wiggled her fingers as if in greeting.

“I'm, um, Quentin. Quentin Coldwater.” He looked around the cave. “So, I'm sorry, I don't … We're under the water? The Strid?”

“That's right,” Margo said, a wicked glint in her eyes. “Three hundred feet down.”

Quentin went a little pale, and Eliot said, “Shush, Bambi, you'll frighten him.”

“Maybe he needs to be a little frightened,” Margo smirked.

Quentin shrank in on himself, coughed again. Eliot handed him a glass of water, and he drank half of it before noticing that the class was cracked, and leaking a bit.

“What…”

“Don't worry about it,” Eliot said, taking the glass back from him. 

Quentin wiped the few drops of water off the blanket, keeping his head down. “So, um, how do we get, how can I go, um.”

“Back?” Margo said, her voice slightly mocking.

Eliot shot Margo a look, and said to Quentin, “Why don't you just rest for a while? We can talk about this later.” He stood, taking the cracked glass with him. “You had quite a time, with that accident.”

Quentin thought about what he had to go back to, years and years left of school for a degree he didn't want for a job he couldn't imagine but knew he wouldn't be able to bear. And he was pretty tired. 

“Okay,” he murmured, laying back down. The floor of the cave was still hard, but the blankets were soft, and he watched the twinkling lights, coughing occasionally, until he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin attempts a little exploration.

Quentin felt a little better the next time he woke. He couldn't tell what time it was - the cave looked just the same, twinkling Christmas lights and all. He sat up in his nest of blankets, and only now noticed that he was naked.

He blushed, even though he was alone, just from the knowledge that two beautiful people had seen him naked while he'd been unconscious and vulnerable. He pulled the blankets closer around himself, looking around the cave.

There wasn't much to see. The floor of the cave was smooth rock, as if worn by water, though it was completely dry. Around the edges there were stalactites and stalagmites, and it was around these the lights had been wound. Quentin wondered for a moment how Margo and Eliot had gotten electricity down here; then for another moment how they were down here at all. Margo had said they were hundreds of feet beneath the Strid, but that didn't make any sense. He was pretty sure the river was at least this deep, if not deeper, and he didn't know much about caves, or rivers, but he supposed a cave in a river would be submerged. Full of water.

He frowned. Climbed to his feet, wrapped a blanket around himself like a toga. 

Margo and Eliot had seemed nice, but they must have been lying to him. He just needed to figure out how, exactly. And why.

He shuffled to the edge of the cave where Eliot had emerged. The yards and yards of cloth were hung here like curtains, and he pushed through until he found the passage Eliot must have used.

Unlike the cave, the tunnel was dark. The air had a cold bite to it, and he held the blanket tighter. His feet flinched from the tunnel floor, stone smooth as if worn by water, and cold as ice. 

He padded down the tunnel, quiet on his bare feet. He started to shiver before too long. The tunnel was winding, and trending downward, which started to worry him. He wanted to go up, he thought. But the tunnel was going down, winding but without a single branch or side passage, and he couldn't do anything but follow it. 

It was almost completely dark, now. Any faint reflection from the Christmas lights couldn't reach this far, and he was feeling his way forward. The darkness started to feel almost oppressive, like it was crushing him. His breath was coming faster. He started to move faster down the tunnel, even though he couldn't see where he was going.

It didn't occur to him to wonder why this tunnel, seemingly worn by natural processes, was large enough for a man to walk through upright. 

It seemed like the tunnel was getting colder. There was a decided downward tilt to the floor now, and Quentin was panicking. He moved nearly at a run, tracing one hand along the wall, and his heart was pounding so loudly it was all he could hear.

Suddenly the wall vanished from beneath his fingers, and he stumbled to a halt. 

After the relative tightness of the tunnel, it felt like there was nothing but space around him. It was dark, and he was scared to move. He thought he could hear water. 

Suddenly there was light coming in from somewhere, and Quentin could see. 

What he saw frightened him more than the darkness. 

He was in a cavern, so large the edges of it receded into the shadows, too distant to be identified. Above, whatever ceiling the cavern had was likewise too high for Quentin to make it out. Somewhere in that massive space, water cascaded down what looked like hundreds of feet, sending up plumes of mist from the vast lake that stretched out before him. 

He was surprisingly close to the edge of the water, and he took a step back in a burst of reflexive fear. His throat still burned from his last immersion, and he had no desire to repeat the experience. 

Something in the water moved. 

He took another step back. 

The surface of the black lake rippled. Something was moving in it, though he couldn't tell what. The light, its source still unknown, got a little brighter. Whatever was in the water thrashed, sending small waves splashing up on the rocks near Quentin. He flinched back, but kept staring at the spot. The thing moving in the water seemed large, a writhing mass. He stared, fascinated. 

A little more light trickled into the cavern, and the bubbling form resolved into a mass of dark tentacles.

He gasped, and the shape moved closer, long tentacles thrashing and beating at the dark water. He ran.

The tunnel seemed even darker after the dim light of the cavern. Quentin ran, his arms held out to feel his way. He stumbled into a wall, jamming knuckles, knocked a shoulder, fell. Scrambled back up and kept running. 

He blundered into soft fabric and flailed through it to the familiar small cave with its twinkling white lights. The pile of blankets was still there and he staggered to the one spot that seemed sane and familiar, wrapped himself in the blankets, and stared fixedly at the curtain, waiting for an unknown monster to churn through the tunnel and kill him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot returns with food, and a bit of an explanation.

Quentin shivered in his pile of blankets for what could have been minutes, or hours. He wondered how Jules would handle the news. He'd left behind his small silver camera. Surely someone would find the rucksack with his information, and mail the camera back to her. She would see his horrible selfies, the big grin he wore in Plover’s writing room, and think he had been happy. She might believe it had been an accident, that she hadn't hugged him goodbye and sent him to his death. He didn't want her to blame herself.

He stared fixedly at the curtain that hid the tunnel. But nothing moved behind it. Maybe whatever that thing was in the water couldn't leave the water. Maybe it couldn't follow him all the way back here. He thought about being ripped apart by those tentacles. Shuddered. He'd wanted to die, but he'd really assumed drowning would take care of it. He hadn't anticipated becoming monster chow.

He giggled to himself, hysterical. 

Something moved, then, behind the curtain. He froze, then skittered back until he was pressed against the stone wall of the cave. He pulled his knees in tight against his chest.

The curtain moved again. Quentin opened his mouth to scream-

And Eliot stepped through.

Quentin sagged against the wall. “Eliot,” he panted.

Eliot's eyebrows came up, and he rushed over to Quentin's side. “Quentin, what on earth?”

Quentin stared up at him, his heart still racing. “I, uh, I went down the tunnel,” he started, his voice shaky.

Eliot's expression melted into understanding. “Oh, you shouldn't have done that.”

“I'm sorry, I, uh, was looking for someplace to piss,” Quentin stammered. 

Eliot's jaw clenched, moved a little strangely. He stood, and went to a part of the cave that Quentin hadn't really investigated. “Just through here,” he said, parting the curtains of golden fabric to reveal a small alcove. 

“Oh,” Quentin said softly, feeling somewhat ashamed that he'd lied. 

“It can be dangerous,” Eliot said opaquely.

“What the hell was that?” Quentin asked.

Eliot looked to the side. “It's, well, hard to explain.”

“Try,” Quentin demanded.

Eliot patted his shoulder. “I think you're tired. I brought you some food, why don't you eat a little and get some rest.”

“Damnit, El, tell me what the hell is going on down here!”

Eliot sighed. “I'm not sure you'll believe me.”

“I will,” Quentin said, reaching out with shaking fingers to touch Eliot's arm. “I promise.”

“We live down here, Margo and me.”

“How is that possible?”

Eliot sighed again. “I knew you wouldn't believe me,” he said, and stood up.

“No, wait, I'm sorry,” Quentin said hastily. “I didn't mean … sorry, just … start over? I won't interrupt, I swear.”

“Okay,” Eliot said slowly, sinking back down to crouch next to Quentin. “Well, we do. Live down here. We always have. I don't know why, before you ask. And we can leave, but.”

Quentin had promised not to interrupt, but her raised both brows in question, hopefully.

Eliot shrugged. “The only way in is the way you came.”

Quentin swallowed. He didn't like to think of the torrent. He was still aching from his passage through the water. And those tentacles … had that thing been in the Strid the whole time? It could have eaten him! He shuddered at the thought. 

“It's okay,” Eliot said, as if gleaning his thoughts. “You're safe in here.”

Quentin looked at him, trying to convey his gratitude.

“So, well, that's it, really,” Eliot said, sitting back a little. “This is getting awkward. Look, do you have any questions?”

So many. Quentin looked around, hoping for inspiration or just a moment to think. “So we can't leave?” he asked, voice small.

“Not easily,” Eliot said. He sounded apologetic.

Quentin sniffed. “Okay.” He nodded, playing with the edge of a blanket. “Why do you sound American?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your accent, it's not British …”

Eliot’s expression seemed slightly strained. “We've always talked like this.”

“And you don't know where you're from, or how you got here?”

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

The silence after that seemed a bit cold. Quentin wondered if he'd offended the man, if he'd hurt Eliot's feelings. He nibbled on his lower lip for a moment. “So, uh, what do you have to eat down here?”

Eliot perked up a bit then. “Well, how do you feel about sushi?”

Quentin wrinkled his nose. “I like it fine, I guess.”

“Good, because it's what we have.” Eliot's shoulders moved strangely, with a liquid ease, and he revealed a plate of fish wrapped in seaweed.

Quentin stared at it. “The presentation is, uh, nice.”

“Margo's idea, you like?”

“Yeah, it looks good. Where, um, where is she?”

“Getting enough for the rest of us.”

“Oh, I probably can't eat all that by myself, she doesn't need to …”

“I suppose we eat more than you might expect,” Eliot said, then nudged the plate closer. “Come on, try some.”

Quentin picked up a small seaweed packet, popped it in his mouth, and chewed. “It's good!” he said, surprised.

Eliot smiled. “It's very fresh.”

Quentin took some more, missing soy sauce a little but really getting quite a bit of salt from the seaweed. The fish itself he couldn't quite identify, but it was rich and buttery and he didn't even mind that it was raw. After a few minutes of silent eating, he asked, “Aren't you going to have some?”

“I'll wait for Margo.”

“You two must be close.”

“Very,” Eliot said, smirking a little. 

“Right, of course.” Quentin sighed, ate some more fish. “Hey, how do you have electricity down here?”

“Hm?”

“The lights,” Quentin said, gesturing to the edges of the room. 

“Oh, that's … kind of a natural phenomenon.”

“What?” Quentin frowned. “But they look just like Christmas lights.”

“No, it's a, well, here, I'll just show you.” Eliot hopped up and walked quickly to the nearest wall, and picked up one of the lights. It came free in his hands, still glowing and twinkling.

Quentin stared at it, eyes wide. “What the hell?”

Eliot smiled at the little speck of light. “I don't know what they're called, but they like these dry caves. You can take a few down the tunnel, so you can see. I mean, it's not totally safe to go down there, but if you want to ...”

Now that Quentin was looking closer he could see that there weren't actually any wires. Just the little lights. Eliot put one in his hands, and he stared down at it, held in his cupped palms. “Wow,” he breathed. “It's beautiful.”

Eliot looked almost … proud. “Being down here isn't all bad,” he said suggestively.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, staring down at a mysterious creature that seemed to be made of pure light, warm and safe and with a full belly, and with a handsome man bringing him food and wonders. “It's not so bad.”

Quentin ate another two pieces of sushi, reached for a third, but couldn't quite bring himself to pick it up.

“Is that all you're eating?” Eliot asked.

“Sorry,” Quentin said, casting his eyes down. “I haven't had much of an appetite.”

Eliot picked up one of the pieces, and leaned a little closer. “Just a little more?”

Quentin blinked, sucking in a nervous breath. “Um.”

Eliot's tongue flickered out, and moistened his lower lip. Quentin's heart did something strange in his chest, and his mouth fell open without him really thinking about it. Eliot set the piece of fish on Quentin's tongue, and when Quentin closed his mouth he caught the tip of Eliot's finger between his lips.

Eliot watched him with an extremely self-satisfied look on his face. Quentin felt himself blushing as he chewed, and wasn't sure why. He was leaning forward, then, and Eliot was, too, and Eliot's mouth was open, just a little, and Quentin licked his lips.

Eliot jerked back suddenly. “I'd better go see what's taking Margo,” he stammered, and was gone.

Quentin slumped, pulling the blanket back over his shoulder. What had he been thinking? Eliot and Margo were together, and they'd rescued him - the least his ungrateful ass could do was not get between them.

He picked at the sushi for a little longer, but his appetite had fled with Eliot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gets sick, and is nursed by Eliot and Margo.

Quentin’s stomach cramped up the next day, and he curled miserably in his blankets and wished he’d never eaten anything before in his entire life. Eliot found him like that, and made regretful noises, and fed him a warm broth. It was salty, and seemed to calm the turmoil in Quentin’s middle. In the aftermath, he lay there weakly, staring up at Eliot with pure gratitude.

“I don’t think I want anymore fish,” Quentin whispered.

“I am really sorry about that,” Eliot said, sitting beside Quentin. He ran a hand through Quentin’s hair, and Quentin let his eyes drift shut. “We can try cooking it for a while.”

“You really don’t have anything else?” Quentin whimpered.

“Just the broth,” Eliot said, petting his hair. “You’ll adjust, I think.”

“I hope so,” Quentin said, miserably.

Margo hustled in a little while later to find them like that, Quentin still curled on his side, Eliot sitting next to him and petting his hair. Quentin made to move away, but Margo waved both hands in a sort of flapping motion, and said, “It looks like you two are getting closer.”

“I'm, um, sorry, I'll …” Quentin started to say. 

“No, no, no,” she said quickly, coming over to sit next to Eliot. “I'm glad.” She smiled then, and it was so pretty and sincere that Quentin found himself smiling back. “It gets lonely down here.”

“I guess I didn't think about it like that,” Quentin murmured. 

“We're both glad to have you here,” Eliot said. “You don't have to worry about that.”

Another cramp ripped through Quentin, and he curled up a bit tighter, gritting his teeth as it felt like his organs were tearing themselves apart. Eliot's hand was still in his hair, and Margo reached out and put a hand on his leg, and while he was in a lot of pain, he wasn't alone. And for some reason that made all the difference.

* * *

Quentin's stomach settled over the next few days. The time passed quickly enough - he mostly slept through it, healing from his bruises and the stomach pain. Eliot and Margo took care of him, keeping him company while he was awake, watching over him while he dozed the days away. He felt safe from the creature in the water with his two new friends keeping an eye on him; and a feeling of gratitude started to grow in him as Eliot fed him more broth and Margo cooked some of the fish for him. 

Quentin got used to the darkness, and to not seeing the sun. The twinkling lights, or creatures, provided more than enough light to see by, and he had more company than he'd really had in years. He didn't mean to dismiss Julia's years of friendship, exactly. She'd looked out for him, tried to help him adjust to normal life. But that was part of the problem, he started to realize - she'd always tried to help him fit in. Margo and Eliot, in just the few days he'd known them, really accepted him for who he was. He'd never expected to find true friends in a cavern beneath the Bolton Strid, but he was starting to be glad he'd come here. 

And they talked. He told them about his love for the Fillory books, and learned that Margo had read them as a child, too. They talked enthusiastically about the stories; Eliot seemed distant, at first, and Quentin thought Eliot might not understand. But then Eliot showed up one day with a battered copy of the omnibus edition, wrapped in plastic bags inside a zipped baggie. He proffered it to Quentin nervously, as if unsure he'd done the right thing. 

Quentin gripped the massive 5-volume set in his arms like a baby, and looked at Eliot with shining eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, unable to get any more force into his voice.

“You're welcome,” Eliot said, and there was something about his voice that made Quentin feel warm. 

“Show off,” Margo muttered, but her eyes belied the attitude. She was happy for Quentin, and the strangest thing about it was that he could tell.

* * *

“So where do you guys sleep?” he asked one night as they were getting ready to leave.

“There are other caves,” Eliot explained, “down the tunnel.”

“Oh, I didn't see any others,” Quentin said, frowning as he tried to put more of a shape to the tunnel - as it receded in his memory, it became more nightmarish than legible.

“Well, it can get pretty dark in the tunnel,” Eliot reasoned.

“Why,” Margo asked teasingly. “Are you getting lonely in here?”

Quentin blushed. He looked down, picking at the edges of his blanket. “Yeah,” he admitted. They came by every day, and spent hours with him - but that still left an awful lot of time when he was on his own.

They exchanged a look. Eliot's eyebrows came up, and Margo frowned. But then she nodded, and said, “Alright, grab some blankets and come on.”

Quentin bounded up, scooped up an armful of blankets and dashed over to stand next to them, vibrating with excitement. Eliot chuckled, and put one big hand on the back of Quentin's neck. It was heavy, and something about it made the anxious thing at Quentin's center still.

“Get some lights,” Margo reminded him, and Eliot plucked a few of the creatures from the walls and, smiling playfully, arranged them in Margo's hair. She smiled back at him, and Quentin could really see the love they shared; and he wanted it, he wanted that for himself. And suddenly he was so sick with longing that he felt an echo of what he’d felt standing next to the Bolton Strid, ready to kill himself.

“You okay?” Eliot asked, pausing. Margo looked at him, too, and they both looked concerned.

Quentin felt horrible for a different reason. They’d been nothing but kind. How could he even think of coming between them? “Just, maybe I should, uh, stay here, after all,” he stammered.

They exchanged another look, and then Eliot fixed him with a piercing stare. “You’re lonely here. Come on, we could use the company, too.”

“I won’t be in the way?”

“Of what?” Eliot asked.

“Oh no, you think -” Margo laughed. “We’re not together.”

“You’re not? But …”

“Oh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Eliot said, pulling Quentin a little closer. “Were you worried you might come between us?”

Quentin flushed deeply. “I know that’s silly, I know I couldn’t …”

“But what if that’s where we want you?” Eliot purred.

“Wh- What?”

“We don’t exactly …” Margo started to say, then paused, seeming frustrated. “I’m not his type.”

“But I am?” Quentin asked, feeling a little breathless.

“You fit the bill,” Eliot said archly, then tugged him toward the tunnel. “Come on, our cave is much nicer.”

Margo giggled, and looped her arm through Quentin’s, on his other side, and together all three of them entered the tunnel. It didn’t seem so dark now, or so forbidding, and they were laughing as they walked together, Margo and Eliot pulling Quentin along.

The tunnel curved downward, as Quentin remembered; but before they got very far down the tunnel, Margo and Eliot were already drawing him to the side, through a set of curtains and into another cave. He’d missed it utterly in the dark. 

They went through layers and layers of curtains, made of the same fabric, into a cave so bright and luxurious that it almost didn't seem like a cave. The small light creatures were everywhere, glittering and twinkling, and more of the fabric had been draped over every surface, over the walls and the creatures sparkled within the fabric and it all looked sort of magical, or like a middle school dance. There was a single large bed that dominated the space; it was round, and covered with pillows and throws and it looked incredibly comfy. Quentin said, “Wow, this is so nice!”

“You think so?” Margo asked, and to Quentin's surprise she sounded a little insecure. He couldn't fathom how someone so beautiful could be insecure about anything. 

“Yeah, it's really pretty,” Quentin said, smiling nervously. “What is this fabric? It's really great.”

“Oh, that's sea silk,” Eliot said, touching the robes draped across his broad chest. 

“Sea silk,” Quentin repeated, frowning. That sounded familiar, though he wasn't sure why. “How do you get it down here?”

“We trade for it,” Margo said dismissively. Though that raised other questions, Quentin took the hint, and dropped it. 

Eliot climbed onto the bed, crawled to its center, and beckoned Quentin to join him. Quentin looked at Margo nervously for a moment; she nodded, and waved him on with a careless hand. He swallowed his nerves, and crawled up onto the bed toward Eliot's welcoming form. His heart was pattering in his chest, with excitement or anxiety, he couldn't tell which. 

Quentin didn't know what he thought might happen. But Eliot pulled him in to lie against his chest, and then Margo joined them, and they just cuddled together.

Quentin squirmed restlessly for a bit. 

Eliot hugged him closer. “Did you think something might happen?” he asked, a slightly teasing note in his voice. 

Quentin twitched a little. “Maybe,” he murmured, blushing. 

Margo hooked her chin over Quentin’s shoulder, smiling a slightly mysterious smile. “Something will happen, puppy, don't worry.” She kissed him then, her lips soft against his, and she tasted of the sea, he thought, his eyes fluttering closed.

She pulled back. He licked his lips, and then Eliot put one big hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. Deep, and wet, and Quentin thought how odd it was that Eliot also tasted of the sea. Eliot pulled away, slowly; Quentin licked at the taste of them on his lips, saw Eliot watching him do it. Wanted to press forward and rub against Eliot until they both came. But Eliot said, “But not tonight.”

“No?” Quentin asked, disappointed.

“We need to talk, first,” Margo explained. 

“Okay,” Quentin said, laying back against Eliot. “That's fair.”

They cuddled together in the dim light, beneath the soft silk blankets, until Quentin feel asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin finally finds out what, exactly, is going on.

Eliot and Margo were gone when he woke up. Quentin was curled in their bed alone, and when he moved his hand brushed against something that crinkled. It was a letter! He sat up in the bed, eagerly, and unfolded the sheet of paper to see it covered in swirly, spidery script. There was something old fashioned about it, and he squinted at it, feeling a thrum of excitement. 

It was a letter from Margo and Eliot, obviously, and apparently both had written different sections of it, the handwriting similar, but different enough that Quentin thought he could tell it apart. He skimmed the letter, determining that it was an invitation of sorts, before reading it again, more slowly. (He used to do this with every book, spoiling it for himself so that he could savor it the second time around.)

The invitation was to dinner, with the both of them. Quentin shivered at the thought. The more feminine handwriting, (Quentin was assuming, here), instructed him to clean up and get dressed the best he could with the lengths of sea silk. The more masculine handwriting was full of coaxing and reassurances, sweet words that made Quentin feel warm inside. He refolded the letter carefully and paused for a moment. He wanted to keep the letter. It made him feel … special, like they cared for him. He looked around their cave, and found an empty speckle ware coffee pot, only slightly battered, and he placed the letter in there.

For just a moment, he wished he had his leather shoulder bag. It wouldn’t have survived the water, and he would have lost the Fillory books he carried inside, which is why he'd left the bag in his hotel room. Still, he missed having the familiar weight on his shoulder, something to hang on to when he was nervous and didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

There was a tub set up in one corner of the cave, filled with clean water, and there were bottles on a water-stained shelf next to it. He wondered when they’d set all this up, and how heavily he’d been sleeping. He looked around him for a moment. He’d been underground for a few days now, maybe as much as a week. He’d sort of lost track of time. Without a day/night cycle, he’d been dependent on Eliot and Margo’s visits to track the passage of time. And for a moment he wondered how long it had actually been. Had they been visiting every day? Were they on a twenty-four hour day? 

Had he been missed yet? Did Jules know what he'd done? 

He tried to shake off these thoughts. The water in the tub was still warm, as if it had been very hot but had cooled, and he distracted himself by wondering how that was possible. 

He washed himself slowly, thoroughly, with a gel that smelled of salt, and a bar that smelled of amber and honey. The gel left his hair soft, and the bar felt really nice on his skin.

He'd never been much for fashion. He tried to copy what he'd seen Eliot do with the lengths of cloth, a cross between a Roman toga and a Greek chiton - he started by wrapping one length around his middle and over one shoulder, with the ends loose. He took a step, and the whole thing unraveled. So he tried again, starting out the same but then adding another length going the other way. The lot of it somehow slid down his legs, and he tripped over it, falling onto the bed with an _oof_ of surprise. 

Finally he just wrapped one length around his chest like a towel, and threw the other over his shoulders like a cape. He sighed. This wasn't going well.

There was a bit of noise at the cave’s opening, and Margo poked her head in past the curtains. She wrinkled her nose at him, grinning. “If that’s what you’re wearing, Q,” she said, “come on.”

“Can you, uh, help me with this?”

She was clearly laughing at him, but she entered the room fully and began walking toward him. Her lengths of cloth hung about her so elegantly, like something out of an old movie. She was beautiful, and Quentin blushed as she got closer. “Like this,” she said, unwinding one of the lengths of fabric and doing something complicated that he was meant to follow but didn’t. He watched her, feeling dazed and grateful.

“Okay, you’ll do,” she said after a few minutes. She’d transformed him completely. He felt like a prince, or something. “Come on,” she said, tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Eliot will wonder where we are.”

Still a bit nervous, Quentin swallowed, and let her lead him out of the cave and down the tunnel.

There was yet another cave, closer to the water than he wanted to be. But when he went inside with Margo, he understood. It was beautiful. The little light creatures illuminated a space of glittering crystals and steaming pools of water. “How?”

“Hot springs,” Eliot said, standing up from a table laden with foods gleaned from their subterranean habitat, more fish, seaweed in various forms, mushrooms, other things Quentin couldn’t quite identify. Eliot looked like a heroic statue, Quentin thought, in a good way. The best way. He walked further into the cavern, distracted from the lights and bubbling springs by Eliot’s shy, surprisingly uncertain smile.

“It’s magical,” Quentin said, still looking at Eliot. 

“Well, let’s, um, let’s sit down,” Eliot said, unusually nervous, as he came out from behind the table to guide Quentin to a chair. There were three chairs at the table, and none of them matched - a blue mod acrylic chair that must have been pressed in the 60s; a wooden chair that had lost a leg at some point, and was currently propped up by a stone of approximately the right height; and a metal bistro style chair that was only slightly bent. Quentin was ushered to the mod chair, which seemed to be the most stable of the bunch, and, charmed by their consideration and by the found furniture, he grinned quietly to himself.

“You seem happy,” Eliot began, slowly, as they started to eat.

Quentin set down his fork (with which he’d been trying to eat some surprisingly delicious seaweed and fish stew), and gave Eliot’s question some serious thought. “I am,” he said, after a moment. “I, um.”

“Yes?” Eliot prompted.

“You can tell us,” offered Margo.

“I didn’t fall in the Strid by accident,” Quentin confessed, not looking at either of them. “I, uh, I was trying to kill myself.”

Margo made a soft noise. Eliot put his hand over Quentin’s, and said, “We thought that might be the case.”

“But I’m really glad you found me,” Quentin said, looking between them quickly. “I’m … I’m really glad I got to meet you both.”

“We’re glad, too,” Margo said, finally taking his other hand, so that they were all connected.

“So am I right about this?” Quentin asked, blushing. “Are you both, um, are we?”

“Yes,” Margo said firmly, squeezing his hand.

“But there’s something we should tell you first,” Eliot said, more slowly. Quentin squeezed his hand, feeling as if he were passing on Margo’s reassurance.

But Eliot hesitated, and Margo was clearly waiting for him to talk, and Quentin said, “You can tell me,” trying to look at them both at once, somehow. “You can tell me anything.”

They exchanged a glance between them, and even Margo looked slightly nervous now. Eliot took a firming breath, and said, “We’re not human.”

Quentin looked from Eliot, to Margo, and back to Eliot again. “What?”

“Should we just show him?” Margo asked Eliot. They were still holding one of Quentin’s hands each, and Quentin thought for a moment perhaps he should pull away. He pulled in a breath.

Eliot looked strangely resigned. “I’ll show him.”

He stood, and moved back from the table. Quentin regretted the loss of his hand, and held Margo’s a touch harder.

Eliot walked to the middle of the cave, and dropped his robes to the floor of it. Quentin stared at him. He was beautiful, all pale skin and long limbs and a really big cock, which Quentin felt slightly creepy noticing in the context.

“Are you ready?” Eliot asked, very seriously.

Quentin took another breath, and nodded. “Yeah, yes, I’m ready.”

And then Eliot changed.

Quentin blinked furiously, stared, as Eliot’s legs lengthened, impossibly, twisting and redoubling, there were more limbs than there had been, and all that pale skin was darkening, until it was a dark, gleaming gray and those legs were tentacles, writhing together.

Quentin stood up. “What, how?”

Eliot, still appearing human from about the waist up, looked slightly worried. “So we’re …” he said, and then gestured to his multiplied limbs.

Quentin gaped at him. Looked at Margo, who shrugged. Looked back at Eliot. “I’m, you’re …”

Eliot cringed slightly.

“You’re amazing!”

“What?”

Quentin rushed forward, then froze just a step from Eliot’s nearest tentacle. “Can I?”

Eliot, looking slightly flabbergasted, said, “Yes, sure.”

And Quentin reached out a careful hand and touched Eliot’s limb.

It was soft, and warm, and something slightly alien moved in Quentin’s breast. His breath caught. He took another step forward. “So you, um. Wow.”

And the limb moved beneath his hand, and he jumped a little, a startled smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Its tip was blunt, but agile, shifting like a finger, but boneless. Almost like a snake, but not in a threatening way, Quentin thought. He stared at it, fascinated, as Eliot twined the limb gracefully around Quentin’s hand and forearm. It was a gentle grip, though Quentin could feel the strength in the limb, and he shifted his arm as it moved around him, watching the interplay of his own pale skin and the dark gray tentacle. 

“You’re not, um, scared?” Eliot asked.

Quentin shook his head, glancing up from the tentacle wrapped around his hand. “No. I mean, you’re not going to eat me, right?”

Eliot smiled, relaxing a little. “Right.”

“And this is what you had to tell me? Before we could, um,” Quentin stammered.

“Start a relationship,” Margo continued for him dryly. 

Quentin blushed, and looked down. 

One of Eliot’s other tentacles came up, and nudged Quentin’s chin up. “Is that still something you want?”

Quentin’s mouth fell open a little bit. “Um, yes. Yes! I mean, if you … I don’t know what you’d see in me …”

Margo moved in behind him, and wrapped her arms around his chest and stomach. “Q, you’re adorable.”

“And sexy,” Eliot purred, moving a little closer.

Quentin blushed hotly. “Oh, I, um, you’re both amazing, I mean.”

“Shut up and come here,” Eliot said, and pulled him into a kiss. He twined Quentin in several limbs, his arms and a few tentacles - these were as warm as flesh, and smooth against Quentin's skin. Eliot's tongue dipped into his mouth, and Quentin sighed, relaxing into Eliot's hold. 

Margo came up behind him, and then she wound her limbs about Quentin as well, and pulled him away from Eliot for a kiss of her own. She worked faster, using a couple of limbs to unwind the lengths of cloth she'd dressed him in. He felt air against his skin, and then he was caught between them, and they passed him back and forth, kissing him until he was dizzy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They start to have sex, and then realize they might have to clear up a few issues.

Quentin kissed Margo, licking into her mouth and feeling her teeth, sharp and more numerous than seemed usual. Her hands stroked through his hair, and she pulled back to nip at his lower lip. It stung, and he touched his tongue to the area, tasting copper. She smirked up at him playfully, and then Eliot’s big hand grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled Quentin away from her. 

“Gently, Bambi,” Eliot said, and leaned down to kiss Quentin. 

Quentin moaned, and felt tentacles stroking up his legs and up his sides, twining around his limbs and his ribs until he was covered by them, caressed all over by them. Eliot kissed forcefully, something overwhelming in the working of his jaw, the tongue that swept into Quentin’s mouth as if it belonged there. 

Then the tip of a tentacle touched his hole, and he flinched.

Eliot pulled back. “Is this okay?” he asked.

Quentin nodded, feeling dazed, and the tip worked just a little bit in as Eliot smiled and leaned back into their kiss. The tentacle broadened fairly quickly, and Quentin squirmed as it worked further into him, and then further, deeper than any human cock could go and he had to pull back again, sucking in a breath as he clutched at Eliot’s shoulders with both hands. 

Margo pressed herself to his back, and started to kiss Quentin’s neck, his shoulder, and he leaned his head back against her, breathing harshly as Eliot worked a second tentacle into his entrance. The stretch was more than he’d ever felt before, and he whined, twisting in their hold. Margo pulled his head around, tugging on his hair, and Eliot nibbled at his stretched throat. The second tentacle had worked in as deep as the first, and Eliot began working them against each other, pulling one out as the other thrust in, pushing Quentin to an edge he wasn't sure he wanted to go over. He panted into Margo's mouth, Eliot now sucking a hickey into Quentin's collarbone and there was a third tentacle teasing at his entrance and he came, untouched, splattering El and Margo with his come. 

Quentin was blushing, he knew, and he looked at Eliot shyly. “Sorry, I was just, um.”

“Why are you sorry?” Eliot asked. His tentacles were still inside Quentin, very deeply inside him, and Eliot did something that made them flutter all along their lengths. “We’re not done yet.”

“Oh,” Quentin said faintly. 

“I’ve just gotten started,” Margo purred, kissing his neck.

“Is that?” he started to ask, but then that third tentacle pushed into his ass, and he yelped, clutching at Eliot’s shoulders. Eliot was warm, and his skin damp with sweat. Quentin, stretched wider than he’d ever been stretched before, wider than he knew was possible, thumped his forehead down onto Eliot’s shoulder and moaned.

Eliot turned his head with gentle fingers, teasing him into a kiss, and there were smaller tentacles twining around his still-sensitive cock but gently, so gently, and the pleasure unfolded through him, made the unreal stretch feel bearable, even good as Margo pressed herself all along his back, nipping at his earlobe. “You’re so hot inside,” Margo sighed, undulating her whole body against his, the rub of flesh on flesh going right to his cock.

“You’re inside me? It’s …” Quentin stammered, tried to picture it, two of Eliot’s tentacles, and one of Margo’s, working in tandem inside of him. He shuddered, still propped up by Eliot’s shoulder, and, needing something to hold on to, bit the nearest thing he could reach.

The nearest thing was Eliot’s shoulder. 

Eliot groaned, pressed up into his teeth, and the tentacles inside him went wild, fluttering and throbbing and Quentin could feel the strange, inhuman movement deeper than he’d ever felt anything, and he had to let go. He panted harshly, and Eliot turned his head and kissed Quentin’s hair, and he said, “That was lovely,” in a dazed voice. 

Quentin snorted, giggled a little. “Anytime,” he said faintly. 

Then something was pressing against his entrance. A sort of bulge, wider than any one of the tentacles, that was trying to get in. 

Quentin winced, pulled away from Margo, who was still kissing his neck. “What is that? I can’t, what?”

“Our eggs,” Eliot said.

“What?” Quentin felt slightly blank with shock.

A lot of the movement stopped. Their tentacles were still supporting him, but they’d stopped caressing his naked skin, teasing at his cock, widening his entrance. The bulge was still there, but it wasn’t trying to get in.

“Our eggs,” Margo said, leaning over his shoulder to purr into his ear. “I need to lay them in you so Eliot can fertilize them.”

“What?” Quentin’s erection wilted, and if his voice was about an octave higher than usual, well, he could live with that.

Eliot frowned. “You did say you wanted this, Quentin.”

“Yeah, sex, not …” Quentin sputtered, not even sure how to finish that sentence. 

“What do you mean?” Margo asked, her tone of voice flatter, harder. “This _is_ sex.”

Quentin struggled in their grasp for a second, and all of a sudden they pulled back from him, out of him, flowing out of him like the tide and he was sitting on the cave floor by himself, cold and slightly sticky. Eliot and Margo retreated nearly to the other side of their cave, and Margo grabbed Eliot’s arm as if for support.

“Are you saying you don’t lay eggs?” Eliot asked him, a perplexed look on his handsome face.

“That’s … yes, that’s what I’m saying.” Quentin ran both hands through his sweat-damp hair, feeling the flush travel up his back and shoulders to his face. “I don’t, I’m. I’m a human, and we don’t, we uh, eggs, we don’t lay eggs, we have babies, um, live births.”

Margo wrinkled her nose. “Then how do they keep from drowning?”

Quentin stared at her, at Eliot, back at her. “I think we might need to talk some more,” he said faintly.

“Yes, I think there’s been some miscommunication.” Eliot patted Margo’s shoulder comfortingly, and then flowed across the room on his many thrashing tentacles to wrap a length of sea silk around Quentin’s shoulders. Quentin gathered the cloth about himself gratefully, and stood on shaking legs. He took a step toward the bed, and nearly fell. Eliot caught him, and let Quentin lean on him until they got to the tall mattress. Quentin nearly fell onto the soft mattress, wincing.

“Sore?” Eliot asked, rubbing his back.

“A little,” Quentin said, scotting further up the mattress. Eliot’s tentacles faded back into legs. Quentin watched this happen, fascinated; it was an almost seamless process, as if this kind of thing happened all the time and was totally normal and Quentin shouldn’t be so fascinated to watch it. But he was. The dark color leached from the tentacles first, then they began to move, shrink, resolve together into legs, two human-looking legs. Once they had … finished, Quentin supposed, Eliot crawled up onto the bed next to him. 

Margo was staying over by the far wall of the cave. She still wore tentacles rather than legs, and wouldn’t look at them.

“I’m, I’m sorry, I guess,” Quentin said, looking between them nervously.

“I suppose we shouldn’t have assumed you would have sex the way we do,” Eliot conceded graciously. “You are from above.”

Quentin blinked. “Is that so mysterious?”

“We’ve met a few people like you before,” Margo asserted, “but only after they’d changed.”

“What do you mean, changed?”

“Become like us, of course,” Eliot laughed.

Quentin shook his head, getting frustrated. “This isn’t making any sense, what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. What do you mean, like you?”

Margo waved a tentacle, somehow making even that motion sardonic.

“So you’re, you’re saying that I could have tentacles, like you two.”

“And live under the sea with us.” Eliot grinned, his slightly too-sharp teeth sending a shiver up Quentin’s spine. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

The thing was, it kind of did sound wonderful. Quentin swallowed. “So, um, you, you thought I was like you?”

“Well, not entirely, not yet,” Margo shrugged, finally coming a little closer. Her tentacles still writhed slowly, as if restless. “But one clutch of eggs should do it, maybe two.”

Quentin sagged back against the mattress. “I think I need to lie down,” he whispered.

“You are lying down,” Eliot pointed out. 

Quentin nodded. “Lower, maybe.” He thought for a moment. “Flatter.”

Eliot put a hand on the center of his chest, above his breastbone. Against all odds, this was comforting, and Quentin felt steadier. He breathed for a few minutes, feeling like his head was spinning and the world was somehow reorienting around him.

Everything slowed, stilled, and eventually Quentin struggled back upright. “Okay, so you’re saying that when you arranged for dinner and stuff, you were, I mean, basically asking if I wanted to have eggs laid in me and then get turned into a tentacle creature.”

Eliot had propped himself up on one elbow, and frowned at Quentin’s words. “That’s an inelegant way of putting it, but, well, yes.”

Margo shrugged.

Quentin breathed, then breathed again. “How long, um, the eggs, how long until they hatch?”

“A few weeks,” Margo offered, gliding closer. “Four to six, depending.”

“On?”

“Size of the clutch, size of each egg, temperature,” Margo listed off on her slim fingers. “A lot of things, really.”

“But no longer than six weeks, you said?”

“Usually.”

“Bambi,” Eliot chided gently. 

“We should be honest,” Margo fired back. “It’s his risk to take, and if he doesn’t understand what we’re asking then it’s not fair.”

Quentin felt reassured by that. He hadn’t known Margo was so passionate about, well, anything. But seeing her fight for his right to informed consent made something warm bloom in his chest. “Are there any other risks?” 

“Well, you’d be more vulnerable to predators, sharks and things, but we would protect you,” Eliot said fiercely, “I promise.”

“And once the, um, the eggs are, I guess, hatched, how long until the, uh, babies grow up?”

Margo looked at Eliot, perplexed. “I’m not really sure.”

“We’ve never checked,” Eliot said, somewhat carelessly.

Quentin frowned. “So you don’t, uh, need me to raise them?”

“Raise them where? Above?” Margo snorted. “They can’t go above, not until they’re nearly grown.”

“No, I meant … um, where do they go after they hatch?”

“Out to sea, of course,” Eliot said.

Suddenly a lot of their assumptions and ignorance made a lot of sense. “Right, okay, so if I carry these eggs, I’ll grow tentacles, and the babies will … go out to sea, and then we just … stay here?”

“Well, we can,” Eliot said generously. “Brakebills is our favorite summer home, but we could also travel -”

“Or we could take him to one of the cities,” Margo suggested.

“Cities? Under the sea, like Atlantis?”

“Hm, I’ve ever heard of a city called Atlantis, do you know it?” Eliot asked Margo.

“That’s, we’re getting beside the point,” Quentin muttered.

“The point is there’s a whole world out there,” Margo said, “and we want you to experience with us.”

Eliot nodded, and then they were both looking at him, expectantly.

Quentin gulped a breath, looked from Eliot to Margo and then back again.

“Okay,” Quentin said, “okay, let’s do this.”


End file.
